


Birthday Presents (Dean, Age 19)

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Presents, Caring John Winchester, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean's Birthday, Everyone Has Issues, Impala, Impala Feels, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Leaving Home, M/M, Mary's Past, Military Training, POV John Winchester, Parent John Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Dean's nineteenth birthday, right after lunch, John slides a box with a bow on top across the table to Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Presents (Dean, Age 19)

On Dean's nineteenth birthday, right after lunch, John slides a box with a bow on top across the table to Dean and looks between his sons for a long, silent handful of moments. "I know that this isn't anything new," he says to Dean. His eyes flick to Sam, then, as he adds, "And I know you aren't even fifteen yet. Shit," and John closes his eyes, rubs at them before he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know that I'm not sure about this," he says, opens his eyes again and looks at Dean, who's moved his chair and is leaning on it, blocking Sam from John's sight. 

He might not be sure of a lot of things, especially the wisdom of what he's about to do, but Dean's kept a better eye on Sam than John ever did and if there's one person guaranteed to make sure Sam gets to adulthood in one piece, it's Dean. 

Not that John's even sure _that's_ a good thing, sometimes -- both Sam's continued existence and his sons' dependency on each other. There are too many things John knows, too many things he can guess at, and maybe this isn't a present for Dean so much as for himself, a way to separate himself from these two boys who might be his flesh and blood but who he's never understood, not way down deep the way they understand each other. 

"Go on," he says. "Open it." 

Sam murmurs something too quietly for John to hear and Dean mutters back but he does move the chair back to where it started. Dean looks down at Sam, says something, Sam nods, and John's not sure what they're saying to each other but they are talking, having a conversation in that language of theirs that John's never been able to decode, that keeps getting more complex the longer they're alive to develop inside jokes and shorthand references. 

Dean lifts the lid, looks at John after he's see what's lying inside on the rolled-up bandages. "Dad?" 

"Keys to the Impala," John says. 

"Yeah," Dean says, and John's not sure who he'd kill for that caution in Dean's voice -- himself or Dean or the demon who killed Mary. Maybe if she was still alive, things would have turned out differently. Maybe he wouldn't have become this half-psychotic man, twisted with grief, and his sons wouldn't have become -- what they are. "But I don't understand." 

John clears his throat. "Those are the originals," he says, "plus a spare set for Sam when he's old enough. I've been thinkin' of doin' this for a while and I figure it's time. Went a couple days ago and bought me a truck, have it at Bobby's right now getting fitted out properly. I figured --"

Sam's the one who gets it first, always has been; John's eldest isn't short on brains by any means -- he'd have colleges fighting over him if he cared about shit like that -- but Sam's always been unnaturally quick. Whatever the demon did to his boy, it hasn't affected Sam's mind. 

"We're splitting up," Sam says. "Permanently?" 

"We'll still meet up every couple months or so," John says. "I wanna make sure you're okay. And if you get into anything that's too big for you to handle, you call me, understand? But you're an adult, now," he tells Dean, "and I'm gone more than I'm home anyway. This way you have a car and back-up when you need it." 

Dean meets his eyes and John resists the urge to shudder. He's not -- he doesn't know for _sure_ about his boys but he has suspicions; he's too good a hunter to not catch the smell of sex and blood and death that seems to linger around them and he always reads the papers of the towns they leave for a weeks afterwards, just to make sure their names aren't in them. He knows they've fought for everything they've had, that they've done things no sane person would approve of to make it day to day as healthy as they are, but in a perverse way, John's proud. His boys are survivors -- no, not survivors. They're the best and brightest of them all, better trained, smarter, willing to do whatever it takes in order to win, skilled hunters and -- and so what if they've done things that'd make John's stomach turn, that'd see them get sent to the deepest, darkest corners of separate prisons for lifetimes upon lifetimes. They're his boys and for all his faults, for all their faults, he loves them. 

They're the only pieces of Mary he has left. Dean with her glimmering eyes, Sam with her quicksilver smile, Dean with the way he cooks just like his mother, Sam with the way his laugh is Mary's, every single tone and ring of it. They have her brain and her heart and if they also got a little of her illness, well. There's a price for everything. The good they've done, that they will do, is more than enough to balance any price. 

Occasionally, when John's drunk and reading the obits for a town they've left behind them, he wonders if he's only saying that to make himself feel better. 

"I don't know what to say." Dean's sitting there, staring down at the box, eyes fixed on the keys. "I never -- we can take the truck, Dad. I don't want you to feel like you have to give her away."

"I don't," John says, gentle. He waits until Dean looks up at him, gives Dean a half-smile and tries not to think about all those plans he had for his oldest boy: t-ball, little league, high school baseball, scholarship to a good school, a steady job, wife and kids and a couple dogs in the suburbs. No. Those plans were on shaky ground the moment he placed Sam in Dean's arms for the first time and the two of them looked at each other, wide-eyed Sam waving a hand and Dean, captivated, taking those tiny fingers in his. Shaky ground that turned to sand and dissolved, John knows, the instant Mary died and he decided that vengeance was more important than stability. It's more than half his fault and John'll bear the burdens of that until he dies. "She's always been more than a car to me but she's home to you two. No one'll take better care of her, Dean, and she'll always take care of you."

Dean holds his father's gaze, then picks up the keys and says, "Thank you," in a tone just as gentle and quiet as John's. "I'll keep her in good shape, and I'll keep an eye on Sam, and we'll let you know if we need back-up or if there's anything interesting you should know, and --"

John holds up one hand, cuts Dean off. "I know," he says. "Otherwise I wouldn't be all packed to get to Bobby's. I trust you, Dean, and I know you won't let me down. You never have." 

That one ounce of praise makes Dean glow and John feels his heart break. 

"How're you gonna get to Bobby's?" Sam asks, leaning into Dean as if giving Dean strength or reassurance or, possibly, reinforcing John's own words. John's never quite known how to read his youngest. 

"Caleb's been down on a hunt in Louisiana," John says. "Finished a couple days ago and should be here to pick me up any minute. He'll drop me off at Bobby's on his way home." 

Sam and Dean exchange looks; Dean gets up first, comes around to John's side of the table and leans down, gives John a hug that's just this side of painful. "Thanks, Dad," Dean says. There's a wealth of words in that one statement: I love you, thank you for trusting me, I almost can't believe this, why didn't you tell us sooner, do you have to go, why did it take you so long to go. There's more, too -- but those things aren't for him, he thinks. 

There's a knock on the door. Sam's next to it, gun in one hand and knife in the other, back pressed to the wall, before Dean's completely let go of John and straightened up. Dean moves behind the couch, fast and soundless, and has his gun ready by the time he gets in position. John stands up, eyes flicking to both of them, wondering for a moment why Dean would let Sam take point on this, and calls out, "Who is it?" 

"'S'Caleb. You ready to go or what, Johnny? We're wastin' daylight." 

John motions for his sons to stand down and Sam listens, tucks the gun in his jeans and the knife up his sleeve. Dean doesn't, moves into a better position to protect his brother's back as Sam opens the door. 

Caleb takes three steps backwards, quick, when he sees who opened the door. "Hey, uh, Sam. I'm here to pick up your --" and then he sees John, can't hide his relief, relief which makes Sam snicker and Dean, behind the couch, stand up with a laugh. "John," Caleb says. "You ready? I'd like to hit the state line before dark."

"Gimme a second to grab my gear," John says. He pins his eyes on his boys, telling them to behave with a look, and disappears to his bedroom. John picks up his duffels, looks around one more time, and lets out a sigh. Sometimes he's just not sure what the hell he thinks he's doing. Vietnam was a fucking shitshow, yeah, but at least then he had orders. 

He makes it back to the living room in time to see Sam grinning, head cocked to the side as he studies Caleb, Dean behind Sam, arms wrapped around his little brother, chin resting on Sam's head. Caleb hasn't moved one step closer to the house and when John appears, Caleb gives him a shaky smile, lets out a breath of relief. 

"Answer your phone when I call," John tells his boys. "We'll make plans to meet up around Easter; there's a set of ghost-sightings down South we can check out."

"Yes, sir," Sam says. "Happy hunting." 

Dean detaches from Sam, moves to John and hugs him. "Be safe," he tells John. "Answer your phone when _we_ call, okay?"

John smiles, can't help it. "Promise," he says. "Keep an eye on your brother." 

"Always," Dean says. 

One last look and John leaves, closes the door behind him and follows Caleb across the parking lot to a dusty old El Camino. John stuffs his gear in the back, sits in the front passenger seat with a sigh, and eventually says, "Appreciate the ride." 

Caleb, already driving out of the parking lot like he's got a couple packs of hellhounds on his trail, snorts. "Anything to get anyone away from those two before it's too late," he says. "I know they're your boys, John, but they ain't right and you know it. That's why you're runnin' from 'em. Ain't it." 

"Think maybe I've been running from 'em since the night Mary died," John murmurs. 

He doesn't say another word until nightfall, pretends to sleep, instead.


End file.
